


A Hundred Years of Duty

by Amethyst_Moon



Series: it's a long way to walk [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fifth Blight, Gen, Reincarnation, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 00:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8230528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst_Moon/pseuds/Amethyst_Moon
Summary: He’s been branded common bandit, kinslayer, carta thug, rebel, and traitor many times. Over the years and lives there has only ever been one constant: the duty to end the Fifth Blight.





	

The dragon roared, high above the ground. Really, Aedan was surprised it hadn’t fallen yet. Flying with a ripped wing must have been hard.

 

“Aedan!”

 

Ah, Alistair had noticed. He glanced at his brother in all but blood, and wondered if it would be the last time. Three of their friends were following him to Fort Drakon; hopefully, there would be no need.

 

“What are you doing? You’re going to get yourself killed!”

 

And wouldn’t that be a relief? Maybe Zevran recognised something, a recklessness that could only come from a desire to die, because his voice was anguished when he spoke. “You pulled me back, my friend. Let me do the same for you!”

 

By then, Aedan had reached Urethmiel’s head and was poised to strike him down. He gave them a tremulous smile. His friends were struck by the sight - their leader was ever-confident, never showing even a hint of fear. But now his eyes shone as they didn’t before, though with sorrow or joy even he didn’t know. Maybe both. “Goodbye, my friends. I’ll see you in my next life.” So saying, he plunged Starfang into the Archdemon’s brain.

 

* * *

The Archdemon flashed through my head. _You’ve returned_ , it growled. I sent the equivalent of a shrug back. I didn’t want to be here either - my soul was just too stubborn.

 

“Welcome, brother,” a voice intruded. Duncan. I opened my eyes to see him peering down at me. How many times have I woken to this?

 

_(Too many.)_

 

“The king has requested that you attend the war council. It would not do to keep him waiting.”

 

King Cailan. The fool king smarter than anyone suspected. And yet, no matter what I did, he always died at Ostagar. It seemed like the world was laughing at me. The Fifth Blight - always, always the responsibility of two fresh Wardens.

 

The war council went according to script, just like every time before it. I didn’t even bother trying to change something; Cailan would just shut me down, focussed on glory as he was. So I followed orders like a good little boy, gathered supplies and Alistair and made my way to the Tower of Ishal. It rose above the battlefield like a giant’s plaything, looming in the darkness, and - I knew - crawling with darkspawn.

 

Just on time, the two soldiers ran out to meet us. But something’s strange. The second soldier’s a rogue, not a mage. Where was the mage?

 

My hands twitched towards my back, and only then did I realize that I carried a staff there. _I was a mage._ Why? How? I’ve been elf and human and dwarf, but never a mage. I had eventually concluded that my soul would never have magic, but here I was. A mage. An _elf_ mage, if my ears were to be believed. Was this body taken from the Dalish or the Alienage? Did it matter?

 

Truthfully, probably not. But at least I wasn’t a _female_ elf mage on top of everything; the discrimination against that would be overwhelming. And over my lives, I’ve come to know the fickleness of the public intimately. Nobles in particular were all too eager to turn on me when it suited them. Brother Bhelen showed that very well.

 

We fought onwards through the Tower. I myself had no idea what spells this body had learned at the Circle, but it seemed that it did. The iron staff twirled in my hands as I stayed back, shooting out fire blasts and lightning bolts without reservation. I hummed in thought. Primal spells were destructive, yes, but supremely unsuited for keeping allies alive. How many times had we come close to death because Wynne wasn’t at hand?

 

As we advanced through the Tower, I trawled through the body’s memories of its skills. Even if I knew how to be a warrior or a rogue able to capture alive Antiva’s best Crow, a mage I had never been; not to mention using a staff is as different to using a long sword or dagger as I could get. Even a hairpin would be closer - at least then I knew to stab it in their eyes! At this rate, I had to claim Spellweaver instead of giving it to Morrigan or Wynne.

 

But that was a long way off. For now, we had the ogre to contend with.

 

Our motley group charged onto the roof, and straight into the path of the ogre’s charge. I attempted to right myself while airborne, but only managed to smash my shoulder into the hard stone floor. Were all mages this pathetic at physical exertion?

 

“Alistair, Soldier, engage it! Bowman, run behind it then start shooting!” Annoyingly, they looked to Alistair for confirmation before running to their places. Hmph. Was it because I was a mage or an elf? Maybe I was spoiled from my last life - no one dared question a Cousland, certainly not common footsoldiers.

 

The ogre must have been a weak one, because it fell even with the scratch damage we dealt. Alistair hurried to light the beacon, while I readied myself to tackle him. Those darkspawn would ambush us soon, and if Flemeth was late - well. Ferelden needed a possible king more than it needed me. Alistair was a competent warrior, and would soon become an exceptional one. All of us would.

 

A flame flared up from the tinder pile into the wood, consuming fuel quickly. The bowman and soldier erupted into exhausted cheering. I, however, heard stamping feet beyond the door. “Get down!” I shouted, tackling the Templar to the ground. Two arrows thudded into place where we were less than a second ago. Dimly, I registered our two placeholders being killed; I spared a moment to regret not saving them yet again. Then I felt _something_ punch through my robes. My throat tickled; I coughed, only to bring up my red lifeblood. Alistair’s horrified eyes met mine as I submitted to the encroaching darkness.

 

Some time later, I opened my eyes to Morrigan wrapping my chest. My first instinct was (dangerously) to tease her for her reaction - or lack thereof. Given her unfamiliarity with me, it was probably for the best that my throat was too sore for speech and that I only managed to croak out a gasp.

 

“Ah, good. You are awake. Perhaps that fool will stop moping now,” she said. I startled for a moment. After a year _(so long so long much longer)_ of fighting together, I always had to remind myself that we had technically never met and they had no reason to consider me a friend. It pained me every time.

 

I went through the motions of thanking her, brooding all the while on which treaty to do first. The dwarves would take too long; and the elves’ situation was complicated like nothing else, and I wanted to have Zev along for that besides. That left Arl Eamon and the Magi. Eamon was the ‘easiest’, true - in a manner. With his son possessed and himself sick, he wouldn’t be able to help without the demon being defeated and himself being cured. The former needed the Circle of Magi and their lyrium to avoid Connor or Isolde being sacrificed, and Alistair being difficult.

 

I guess I’ve made my decision.

 

Besides, Wynne was there.

 

Morrigan’s mother looked to me as I walked out of their hut. “Welcome, Traveller,” she greeted. I swept into a bow I once learned as a Cousland - I was a manipulative little shit that time.

 

“My lady Flemeth,” I returned, “we meet again.”

 

She cackled in delight. “What are you up to, Traveller? Twenty? Thirty?”

 

I could see Alistair’s confused expression, but couldn’t bring myself to care. Everything started now, in a hut with the Witch of the Wilds. “A hundred, my lady. A century since the first.”

 

“You know what to do now, then?”

 

I nodded. Yes, after so many years, I knew very well what had to be done and which actions would result in the most gain.

 

“What are you talking about, Alim? Loghain betrayed us, and now Duncan’s dead. It’s a Blight, and Loghain’s killed all the Wardens!”

 

I placated him as best I could. Yes, Duncan’s dead, but I was apathetic to it by now. (I was glad, the first time. The shem had taken me from my clan.) Yes, Cailan’s dead, but no matter how smart he was, the boy was still a glory hound. Yes, Loghain had betrayed us, but if he charged into the valley the darkspawn would have overwhelmed his people. Do or don’t, it was an ugly choice - and he chose the lives of the many.

 

_(Isn’t that what Grey Wardens did?)_

 

Alistair calmed eventually, Morrigan joined, and off we went towards Lothering with Flemeth's cackle ringing in our ears. “An anniversary gift,” she had said, pressing a chain into my hands when the other two weren’t looking. It was now braided into my (waist-length. Why was it waist-length?) silver hair where its weight reminded me not to get complacent. The night before we would arrive in Lothering, I retreated into my tent early. It was time to examine this ‘Alim’s’ memories closer.

 

Delving into the mind, I found myself in the Circle Tower. That wasn’t a surprise - the mind usually took the form of the place the body had spent most of its time in. A Cousland had Highever castle, Brosca had Dust Town, and so on. I scaled the tower towards where Uldred made his stand, looking in rooms, chests and closets all the while. Memories could be stored anywhere, even under beds - it all depended on the personality before I took over. Just about the only thing minds had in common was that their most precious moments were kept deep in their fortress, as far from the ‘entrance’ as possible.

 

I soon realised that Alim was, like Aedan, loyal to a fault - and that was where it ended. Where Aedan was brash and honest, Alim would hang back and spin a story. Where Aedan might trust unconditionally, Alim would put up a facade. But Alim would also reserve judgement, would only trust his own opinion. And once he approved, Alim would stand by you forever. That pitiful Blood Mage, Jowan, was apparently Alim’s best friend. I wondered what he had done that the other apprentices hadn’t.

 

Immersing myself into Alim was no different than the last eighty or so times I had done this, and I quickly absorbed his memories and skills into mine. It was the only thing I could do to remember all the Wardens who once were and might never be.


End file.
